


growing on me (just like mold)

by theMightyPen



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But With Actual Plot!, F/M, Gen, Pre-Canon, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 19:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14940606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: In Year 3006 of the Third Age, Eomer, son of Eomund, meets Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. To say it goes less than swimmingly would be an understatement.





	growing on me (just like mold)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is completely unrelated to Too Wise--it only happened because I got two very similar prompts from tumblr at the same time: 
> 
> I wish you would write a we met as kids I found you annoying now you are all grown up and I lost the ability to form proper words
> 
> AND
> 
> This a bit specific but I would love to see a Lothiriel x Eomer fic like the Swan Princess song This Isn't My Idea Of Fun where you have kidlets annoying each other on a diplomatic trip, only to turn around to find out the brat they remember grew up fiiine.
> 
> And thus, this fic was born.
> 
> The title comes from the incomparable Galavant song: "Maybe You're Not the Worst Thing Ever", which I invite you all to listen to.

* * *

 

_Dol Amroth, May, T.A. 3006_

When Eomer is fifteen, he’s deemed well-trained and grown enough to accompany Theodred on a diplomatic errand to Gondor. At first, he thinks it an honor. A privilege, to be so trusted by his uncle, to ride with his cousin’s esteemed _eored_ , to visit their neighbor and ally.

He revises his thoughts on the matter within the first hour of being in Dol Amroth.

Oh, the city is pretty enough, though the sight of the sea unnerves him a little--its ripples are similar to the Plains on a windy day, but the overwhelming _blueness_ of it all seems otherworldly--and the Prince and his sons are amicable.

Elphir, the eldest, is more of an age with Theodred, and considering the sincere way they grip arms and grin at one another, a good friend. Erchirion, the middle son, while only a year older than Eomer, is already involved in the fleet and will only be present sparingly, if at all, during their visit. The youngest boy, Amrothos, twelve and boisterous in a way Eowyn would approve of, shakes all of their hands with an undeniable air of mischief about him.

And then--

There’s a sudden _shriek_ , which absolutely does _not_ cause Eomer to jump, and then a blue and brown blur is hurtling itself at Theodred.

“You remember my daughter,” Imrahil says, in long-suffering tones, “Lothiriel, of Dol Amroth.”

“Theo, Theo, Theo,” said blur is squealing, having been slowed by Theodred’s welcoming embrace enough to finally resemble the little girl she’s supposed to be, “hello! I missed you!”

The rest of the _eored_ is snickering behind them, but Theodred pays them no heed, choosing instead to swing the girl up into his arms. “And I you, _lyt_ _scipflota_! Have you been behaving, like you promised?”

“Yes!” She cries as all three of her brothers groan, “no,”--though none of them look anything less than amused at their sister’s antics.

“Lothiriel, the truth,” Theodred says, and Eomer stifles a grin. He recognizes that tone, both from his childhood and from Eowyn’s, and is unsurprised when the girl’s exuberant expression dims, turns guilty.

“I may not have _always_ behaved,” she admits.

“Hah!” Barks Elphir. “More like _never_ , Loth.”

“That’s not true!” She protests. “Just last week I did all of my lessons before going riding!”

“Yes, on my horse,” says Imrahil, though his lips twitch with something suspiciously like a smile.

“Hm,” Theodred murmurs, drawing her attention back to him. “And here I was, thinking I would reward your good behavior with a surprise--”

“A surprise!” Lothiriel squeaks. “Oh, Theo, please, I’ll behave the whole time you’re here, no more rides on Thunder, and I’ll do all of my lessons and be quiet at the table--”

“A fair trade, my lady,” his cousin agrees. “And in reward, your surprise.” He turns, balancing the girl on his hip with ease, and waves a hand in Eomer’s direction.

Eomer cannot say who is more _surprised_ \--himself, or the precocious child with an arm wrapped securely around Theodred’s shoulders.

“This is my cousin, Eomer,” Theodred says, and Eomer nearly blushes from the amount of pride in his cousin’s voice. “We spoke of him the last time I was here, do you remember?”

The look on her face could only be described as disappointed. “I thought your cousin was a girl.”

There’s a loud laugh from behind him--Eothain, most likely, the _bastard_ \--and this time Eomer does blush, heat blooming in his cheeks and creeping up over his ears.

“That’s my other cousin, _lyt scipflota_. His little sister, Eowyn.”

“Why couldn’t she have been my surprise?” Lothiriel pouts. “There are plenty of boys here already--”

Being dismissed so roundly by this pint-sized princess isn’t the _most_ embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him, but it’s certainly high on the list. “Because Eowyn is too young to ride such a far distance,” he says, reminding himself that it would be very, very impolite to _hiss_ at a child. “I am sorry I do not meet your high standards--”

His voice cracks on the last word and this time there’s no stopping the _eored’s_ laughter, nor the looks of both sympathy and amusement on the four Princes faces.

The princess, abruptly, looks delighted. “Your voice is all squeaky! Like Amrothos’s!”

Amrothos goes nearly as red as Eomer fears he must look, and gives his sister a glare. “It is not _squeaky_ , Lothiriel--”

“Yes it is,” she says primly, “like a mouse.”

“Lothiriel,” Imrahil interrupts, “that is not a kind thing to say.”

At this, her brow furrows. “Oh, I am sorry. I like mice! And squeaky voices!”

Were she any older, Eomer would suspect her of being false, but she’s too young for such coyness. “Apology accepted, my lady.”

She beams at him before turning back to Theodred. “What am I to do with my surprise, Theo?”

“I had hoped you and Amrothos would show Eomer around your beautiful city,” he says, lips twitching as Eomer shoots him a dismayed look, “he has never been to Gondor before, you see--”

She gives another happy squeal, wriggling herself out of his arms before bounding over to Eomer. He stifles a groan when she wraps her hand around his in a surprisingly strong grip. “Oh, there is so much to see! There’s the harbor and the market and the cliffs--”

“Which you are welcome to show to your guest, so long as you are properly accompanied by a Swan Knight,” Imrahil says.

Eomer bristles--he is an able warrior and scarcely needs a _babysitter_ \--

“It is not for you, Lord Eomer,” Erchirion says, clearly reading his expression. “Lothiriel and Amrothos have a certain...knack for finding themselves in places they should not be.”

_Ah_ , Eomer realizes. He is to be the babysitter. How wonderful.

 

* * *

 

_Dol Amroth, June, T.A. 3006_

Two weeks later, his favorable opinion of Dol Amroth has only grown, though that has not extended itself to include the princess. Lothiriel is mischievous, impulsive, and more clever than any seven year-old girl should have any right to be. Even with his and the Swan Knights’ presence, she manages to cause trouble. One day it had been an overturned basket at the market, the next she had freed a beaten-down old donkey from its pen without seeing reason to warn any of them of her plan.

“He looked so tired!” She had protested when Eomer had taken her to task for it. “It wasn’t right, how they were treating him!”

He suspects she’d been right, there, at least, but it had not made placating the outraged owner any easier. In the end, Imrahil himself had had to intervene, offering the man _far_ more than the animal was worth.

Theodred, for some inexplicable reason, finds her behavior endearing.

“You would never condone Eowyn behaving in such a way,” Eomer grouses, shaking the sand from his hair after yet another ill-advised trip to the beach. Lothiriel had managed to escape them, somehow, and he’d had to hunt through four sand-dunes until he’d found her.

“Eowyn would never dream of such a thing,” Theodred chuckles. “Though sometimes I wish she would.”

Eomer gawks at him. “You would have my sister turn into--into a _forhswebuug_ , like this spoilt princess?”

Theodred’s expression darkens. “I would have her be a _child_ ,” he says, “I would have her be as carefree as Lothiriel, as at ease, as happy. Is that such an ill thing?”

He can only blink as the anger drains from his cousin’s face, leaving weariness in its place. “You and Eowyn have been through so much...neither of you have had the childhood my father or I wished for you, and seeing Lothiriel only reminds me of that. What you lost along with your parents. What we could not give you.”

Eomer’s stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch. There is truth in what Theodred says--after their parents had died, Eowyn had gone cold, for a time, whereas he had felt nearly eaten _alive_ by helpless, burning rage--at the Orcs who killed his father, at his father’s men for not being able to protect him, and at his father himself, for not being more careful. Imagining Lothiriel, tiny and irritating as he may find her, grappling with either of those things...he can see why Theodred is so indulgent of her, now.

“It was not of your doing, Theodred,” he says, feeling off-kilter at comforting his cousin, usually so fearless and bold. “But I see what you mean. I forget that some children are allowed to be so.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at Theodred’s lips. “I admit, that was part of the reason I made you her ‘surprise’. You are so serious, sometimes, _gesweór_ , and Lothiriel--”

“Is anything but?” Eomer finishes, relieved when Theodred laughs. “Yes, I have noticed.”

“She will have to abandon her larks soon enough,” Theodred says. “But for now, try not to begrudge her for her mischief. She is a sweet girl, underneath all of her antics, and it brings me joy to see her happiness.”

“Yes, I had noticed that too, _Theo_ ,” Eomer says, groaning when he receives a cuff to the head for his teasing.

 

* * *

 

Treaties agreed upon, the time comes for the Crown Prince of Rohan’s _eored_ to return to Rohan.

Lothiriel looks serious for the first time, looking up at him and Theodred with a quivering lip. “Here,” she says, abruptly thrusting a small parcel into Eomer’s hands. “For you.”

He cautiously slides it open--he would not put it past her to slip something unsavoury between the paper, as she and Amrothos had filled his boots with seaweed not a week prior--only to blink in surprise at what he finds within. It’s a tiny scallop-shell pin, wrought in silver.

“Erichi helped me have it made,” she says, nervousness making her words tumble out of her in a rush, “it’s a symbol for protection and safe travels.”

“I am--” Honored? Confused? All of those things, because he thought the princess disliked him, considering the amount of times she’s caused him trouble during his month-long stay. “Surprised.”

Her confusion is evident. “Why?”

“I did not think you particularly liked me, Princess,” he admits, feeling heat crawling up the back of his neck when Theodred huffs a laugh to his left.

“Of course I like you!” She cries. “I would not have shown you Dol Amroth if I did not! Or the beaches! Or the market, or the stables--”

(All places that he suffered some sort of mishap at her hands. On one memorable occasion, she’d been seated on Theodred’s shoulders, and had stuck her tongue out at him when he’d glared at her.)

“She gave me a similar treatment, the first time I visited,” Theodred says. “Lothiriel is very...effusive in her affection.”

Eomer could not be more surprised if she’d hit him over the head with a frying pan (again). “My mistake, Lothiriel.”

“I really do like you, Eomer,” she assures him. “I am sorry if it did not seem that way.”

Privately, Eomer wonders if there has ever been a queerer way a little girl has shown someone her favor, but chooses not to voice that. They are going back to the Mark, anyways, and it is very unlikely he will ever see her again. “Do not trouble yourself, princess.”

She frowns. “But the pendent--you’ll keep it? To remember me by?”

_I do not think I could ever forget you_ , he thinks, a little unkindly, but he offers her a smile all the same. “I will.”

Her face brightens considerably and she sticks her hand out to him for a shake. “Then we shall part as friends!”

He’s still shaking his head at the strangeness of it all--he’s never been shown affection by having numerous buckets of salt-water dumped over his head before--as they pass through Dol Amroth’s gates. Theodred rides up next to him, and claps a hand to his shoulder.

“You did well,” he says. “And have quite surpassed me in the eyes of our young friend.”

“Do not wish that upon me, Theodred,” Eomer groans. “That princess is trouble made flesh.”

Theodred grins. “Give it time. She’ll grow on you.”

_Like mold_ , thinks Eomer.

 

* * *

 

_Dol Amroth, August, T.A. 3006_

Lothiriel frowns upon opening her first letters from Eomer and Theodred. Oh, Theo’s letter is as wonderful as ever--full of the coming and goings of Rohan, a funny story about the cousin of his she _hasn’t_ met yet, and a promise to write again soon.

Eomer’s is scarcely a letter at all, just a simple _yes, we made it home safely, thank you again for the pendent_.

Amrothos laughs at her when she pouts about it at dinner. “You terrorized him, Loth! Is it really so surprising he has so little to say to him?”

She hadn’t _meant_ to terrorize him--she’d done the same things to Theodred and he’d laughed! He had played with her, and made good on his promise more than once to throw her into the sea when she truly deserved it. Eomer, on the other hand, had stayed so...so... _boring_ , so _serious_ , barely cracking a smile when she’d been silly on purpose, burying Amrothos in the sand and making him into a mermaid with a few well-placed shells.

But she had liked him anyways--Erichi was her favorite brother, after all, and he could be just as serious and foreboding as Theodred’s younger cousin--and besides. He _had_ to like her. Everyone did!

Ada laughs when she says as much--not his true laugh, happiness and pride rolled up in one--but his laugh that she has come to associate with Amrothos’s scrapes and her attempts to bring stray animals into the palace. “Oh,  Lothiriel. No one is universally loved. Not even you, _seldë_.”

Nonsense! Perhaps she just has to try a different way.

 

* * *

 

_Edoras, January, T.A. 2019_

The years pass quickly. Too quickly, it seems, and with no small measure of darkness.

Sometimes it feels as if the only time he ever sees Theodred smile any longer is when he’s reading over his correspondences from Gondor. Lothiriel still writes him, he knows, as does her eldest cousin, the mighty Boromir.

“He cares too much for people that are not his own,” Wormtongue whispers to Theoden King. “His thoughts should be here, with you and the Lady Eowyn, and yet he keeps ties with the Steward’s son and the little princess. Why?”

Eomer suspects he knows why.

It is a risk for Theodred to show either him or Eowyn too much marked affection in Grima’s presence. But what can the Worm do to Gondor’s greatest protector, or the far-away spitfire of a princess?

Still, Eomer cannot begrudge Theodred any sort of happiness. Not now. Not even if it grates, just slightly, to watch him burst into laughter over one of their letters as they wait for their respective _eoreds_ to prepare themselves.

“What news from Gondor?” He asks.

Theodred mops at his eyes, calming himself before he can manage an answer. “It would seem Lothiriel has managed to lose herself another suitor. He was not as fond of sea-urchins as she is, apparently.”

_Shocking_ , Eomer thinks. He knows, logically, that the princess is no longer the bratty seven year old who dragged him all over Dol Amroth. It’s been...Bema, it’s been nearly thirteen years since then, which would make her...nineteen, almost twenty. Well beyond her majority in the Mark, and just passed it in Gondor.

Theodred must read his expression because he rolls his eyes. “You do her a disservice, Eomer. Lothiriel is, by all accounts, an accomplished and beautiful woman. She is not a child any longer.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Eomer grumbles. “She had the audacity to ask if I still wear her pendent in her last letter.”

Theodred smirks. “So you do answer her letters. I did wonder.”

He grimaces. Damn, he hadn’t meant to reveal that. At first, he had only opened her letters out of annoyance--her childish script had been just as unwieldy as the girl herself--and then curiosity. She wrote for six years without a single response from him, happily chattering on about her brothers, the sea, the horse her father had finally consented to letting her purchase. He still hadn’t responded, but it had been...entertaining, at the least, to watch as her script smoothed out, became precise and orderly, and her thoughts mirrored it. She focused less on childish occupations, more aware of the going-ons of the rest of the world, and particularly intent on drawing a response from him.

_I thought we parted as friends_ , her last letter had read, _and yet you have made me go nearly half of my life without a response!_

Feeling called out, he had begrudgingly written back, assuring her of his friendship, and that he had been busy of late.

_Theo has not been too busy to write me_ , had been the tart response.

_Troublesome as ever_ , Eomer had thought, but he had felt himself smiling, all the same. And he has written with more frequency in the six years since then, though he considers himself a much poorer letter writer than his cousin.

“I answer,” he admits. “She is as...amusing as ever.”

“Amusing,” snorts Theodred, something worrying in his tone. “Not the word I would choose, but as you say, Eomer.”

There is the sudden call of a horn that ends all discussion of letters and precocious princesses.

“Safe travels to you, _gesweór_ ,” Theodred says, reaching over to grip Eomer’s arm in a warrior’s stance.

“And to you,” Eomer answers. “Bema shield us both.”

The corners of Theodred’s mouth quirk up. “I thought that’s what the princess’s pendent was for?”

He has already turned, missing Eomer’s parting rude gesture.

In the wake of everything that is to come, he is glad he can think of the last time he saw his cousin--his friend, his Prince--with a smile.

 

* * *

 

_Minas Tirith, March, T.A. 3019_

_...can you promise me that, Lothiriel? It would give me peace of mind to know that you will hold to hope. And perhaps I should not ask this of you, but I can think of no one else I would trust with such a task--will you comfort Eomer, and Eowyn, should they need it? Meduseld has been dark, of late, and I can think of no better balm than your cheerfulness. Bema knows your letters have buoyed me enough._

_Alas, that mine cannot do the same for you._

_Know that my thoughts are with you, lyt scipflota. Sister I never had._

~~_Theo_ ~~

_Theodred, Crown Prince of the Riddermark_

Lothiriel’s hands shake as she re-reads Theodred’s letter--his last letter. For word has reached them now, in the wake of Pelennor, of Gondor’s near doom, that it is not only her country who has suffered losses.

Theodred is gone, killed just a day before Boromir. The world feels a lesser place without them.

“Lothiriel,” comes Ada’s weary voice, interrupting her grief. “I must ask something of you.”

Lady Eowyn is in the Houses of Healing. Why, they do not know, only the how--she rode with their Rohirric saviors during the Battle of Pelennor. And managed to fell a Nazgul in the process. Everything she knows of this woman comes from Theodred--and Eomer’s much more sporadic--letters. Lothiriel cannot say she is surprised that she has come here, to defend her country, to wield a sword as bravely as any man.

“She must be kept company,” Ada explains as they make the journey from their apartments to the Houses. “Eomer is loathe to leave her, but the King requires his presence to make a plan for the next battle with the enemy--”

There is a strange buzzing in her ears making it hard to focus. _Eomer_ , here? But of course he is. He is a great warrior--she knows enough from Theodred, from her brothers, too--to know that, and more than that, he is to be--

He is to be the King. Now that Theodred has fallen.

_I once told the future King of Rohan he had a voice like a mouse_ , she thinks dazedly, her feet moving of their own accord.

Ada entrusts her into the guidance of Mistress Ioreth, who has her weaving around the sleeping and injured with well-practiced ease. “Packed to the gills, we are,” she mutters, “poor things, some of them are unlikely to last the night.”

“But Lady Eowyn shall,” Lothiriel says.

The older woman shrugs. “It is not a certain thing. But she has been healed by the hands of the King--that gives her a better chance than most.”

She is deposited rather unceremoniously at the door of one of the private rooms. Tentatively, she pushes it open--

Lady Eowyn’s pale, blank face is the first thing she notices. Grief presses on her heart again--where is the woman Theodred so lovingly described as fierce and fiery? Where is the sister Eomer loved so dearly, his affection obvious in the few short sentences he would afford her in his letters?

Eomer himself is a study in contrasts next to his sister. If she is drained of color, he is alight with them: dark golden hair, vibrant leathered armor, grime and dirt from battle doing little to dim the intensity of his expression. A true warrior, fierce and bold.

_And handsome_ , her traitorous mind offers, _that, too_.

“My lord,” she says, softly.

He turns his head to meet her gaze. She can still see the boy she remembers, lurking around the jut of his cheekbones, the stubborn set of his chin--but the eyes are infinitely wearier. Sad.

_Theodred’s eyes_ , she thinks, and has to blink back a fresh onslaught of tears.

“The Prince sent me to watch over your sister,” she finds herself saying. It’s true, in more ways than one--her father had sent her, yes, but had Theodred not done the same, in his letter? “King Elessar has need of you.”

He grunts his acknowledgement and Lothiriel has to bite her lip to keep from smiling; it is a sound she remembers well-enough from that summer, all of those years ago. Eomer stands, bending to press a kiss to his sister’s forehead, and then crosses the room towards her.

_Valar what is--oh_ , she thinks. “My lord.”

He arches an eyebrow at her, clearly unimpressed and even more clearly unaware of who she is. She’s strangely hurt by the realization, and that hurt colors her words, as she says, “You might want to consider washing before meeting with the King. Smelling like an Oliphaunt would doubtless do you well amongst your enemies, but not amongst friends.”

Oh, _Valar_ , she thought she was passed this! It had taken years of tutoring from Aunt Ivriniel to train the mouthiness out of her and now--

Eomer’s expression can only be described as ferocious. “When I require the opinions of spoilt, pampered noblewomen, you will be the first to know, my lady.”

_Not so mouse-like anymore_ , her horribly inappropriate brain offers. She must squeak--ironically enough--some sort of apology, because he goes, leaving her alone with the unconscious Slayer of the Witch King.

“Hello,” she murmurs, feeling foolish when Eowyn’s expression fails to change. “I am sure this must sound strange, but I feel as if I know you already…”

 

* * *

 

_Minas Tirith, May, T.A. 3019_

“You could at least attempt to look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Eowyn murmurs, pinching his side.

Eomer winces, trapping her hand against his side with his free one. “Keep your claws to yourself, Eowyn.”

“I will if you stop scowling at every Gondorian noblewoman who so much as glances in your direction,” she shoots back, “Bema, Eomer, you would think they were Orcs instead of pretty, unwed maidens!”

“I would prefer the Orcs,” he grumbles.

In the months since he’s been named King, it feels as if all that he has done is been paraded in front of eligible women like some sort of breeding stallion. As if he has given any thought to finding a wife, a Queen, with the entire country teetering on the brink of disaster!

“You are the only man alive who would complain about beautiful women giving you too much attention,” Eothain snorts from behind him. “What I wouldn’t give for a handful of these lasses gawking at me--”

“I doubt your wife would appreciate that,” Eowyn reminds him with an arched eyebrow.

“I said looking, Eowyn,” Eothain counters, cheeky as ever. “Nothing more.”

She rolls her eyes, turning her head to face the main dias. A wide smile blooms on her features, for Faramir is coming towards them, with yet another beautiful, young (likely unwed) maiden on his arm. Bema, is he to have no peace, even from those he considers friends?

“Well met, Eomer King,” Faramir greets, grinning just as widely as his smitten-looking betrothed, “hello, my love.”

“Faramir,” Eowyn answers, blushing prettily. The sight unnerves Eomer--to think Eowyn capable of blushes is still something he is adjusting to--but not near as much as the next words out of her mouth, which are, “And Lothiriel! It is wonderful to see you again, _min drut_!”

Eomer nearly chokes, because the girl beaming up at Eowyn is none other than the noblewoman who’d so rudely accused him of smelling like a mûmakil not two months before. And then she turns that smile on him and he nearly swallows his tongue because she is _beautiful_ , cheeks dotted with the same freckles he remembers from when she’d been a child, but tempered by a woman’s features, with full pink lips and long, glossy dark hair.

The eyes, though, are the same, and sparkle with barely restrained mischief. “It is good to see you as well, Eowyn,” she says, “and you, Eomer King.”

“Ngh,” he says, intelligently.

“Eomer!” Eowyn cries. “Are you alright?”

“Well, that was good deal louder than a mouse’s squeak,” Lothiriel says, “but nowhere near loud enough to resemble an Oliphaunt. What animal are you playing at tonight, sire?”

Eothain’s guffaw echoes throughout the room. Faramir and Eowyn exchange a look Eomer is _certain_ he doesn’t like, but he can only focus on Lothiriel, who offers him an unapologetic smile.

“I am not sure about tonight, but the last time I saw you I believe I was filling the role of ‘ass’,” he says, ignoring Eowyn’s pinch at his foul language. “I believe I owe you an apology, my lady.”

“Consider our debt even,” she answers. “For I insulted you long before you insulted me.”

“We are even, then,” Eomer agrees.

Faramir chuckles, clearly accustomed to his cousin’s sharp wit. “There is a story here that I think I would like to hear.”

“And me as well,” Eowyn adds. “For I have heard Theodred’s side of things, but I think your accounts might be slightly more truthful.”

Lothiriel ducks her head, blushing slightly, and Eomer cannot resist the impulse to offer her his free arm. She threads hers through it, before turning her face up to meet his. “Shall you begin or shall I, my lord?”

“I think I must, if I am to retain any sort of dignity,” he says, resolutely ignoring Eowyn’s snort to his right. “Thirteen years ago, I was permitted to go on my first diplomatic errand to Dol Amroth…”

He finds himself unbothered by Faramir and Eowyn’s laughter--and later, Aragorn’s, when he is forced to tell the story again--with Lothiriel at his side, filling in the gaps in his memories effortlessly and with a smile.

“ _She’ll grow on you_ ,” Theodred had warned.

Eomer is fairly certain his cousin had been right.

 

* * *

 

_Edoras, May, T.A. 3021_

“Stop fidgeting,” Eothain whispers. “You look as nervous as a youth before his first trip to an ale house.”

“This is a good deal more important than _that_ ,” Eomer hisses.

He is nervous. Who could blame him? It is not every day that a man’s bride--soon-to-be-wife, his almost-Queen, his _love_ \--arrives at the home they will share together.

“The Dol Amroth banners!” Someone cries. “They are nearly here!”

There’s a great cry from the gathered people. Lothiriel’s dowry has gone almost entirely into providing the people of Rohan with food, clothes, and other necessities--what can they do but love her?

_As storm-like as ever_ , Eomer thinks, smiling to himself.

And then there is the thunder of hooves as the Gondorian party approaches the steps of Meduseld. Aragorn dismounts first, as protocol demands, stepping forward to grip Eomer’s arm and accept the bread and salt.

“Well met, brother,” he says. “The Golden Hall looks well.”

“Thank you, Aragorn,” Eomer answers, willing himself not to crane his neck around his friend’s shoulders in search of the person he longs to see most. “I trust you had a safe journey.”

“Safe and quick,” Aragorn agrees. “Someone was dreadfully impatient to get here.”

“Who--”

Before Eomer can get the words out, a blur of blue and brown has thrown itself at his chest. Arms are wrapped tightly around his waist, the heady smell of jasmine and ivy fills his senses--

_Lothiriel. At last._

“Hello, Eomer,” she murmurs, lifting her head from his chest to smile up at him. “I missed you.”

He kisses her in greeting and the courtyard errupts into cheers around them.

Posterity does not record Imrahil’s reaction.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I won't lie, this fic was a DELIGHT to write, and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Vocab:  
> lyt scipflota: little pirate  
> forhswebuug: storm  
> gesweór: cousin  
> selde: daughter  
> min drut: my friend


End file.
